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A LITTLE  GARLAND  OF 
CELTIC  VERSE 


f 


IVhen  Summer  twilights  fally 
And  the  white  rose's  truce  is  over  ally 
IVhen  Winter  walls  us  in^  and  wild  winds  blow 
Across  the  crumbling  spaces  of  the  snow^ 

There  will  be  alwaj^s  one  or  two  who  hold 
Earth's  coin  of  less  account  than  fairy  gold  ; 

Their  treasure^  not  the  spoil  of  crowds  and  Kings. 
But  the  dim  beauty  at  the  heart  of  things^ 

They  find  more  magical  than  any  saith 

The  old.,  old  masque  of  Love^  of  Life^  and  Death. 

L.  M.  LITTLE. 


A LITTLE  GARLAND  OF 
CELTIC  VERSE 


PORTLAND  MAINE 
THOMAS  B MOSHER 
MDCCGGXYI 


FIRST  EDITION,  OCTOBER,  I905 

SECOND  EDITION,  JUNE,  I907 

THIRD  EDITION,  OCTOBER,  I913 

FOURTH  EDITION,  JULY,  I916 


PROEM 

CELTIC  SPEECH 
To  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde 


Never  forgetful  silence  fall  on  thee, 

Nor  younger  voices  overtake  thee, 

Nor  echoes  from  thine  ancient  hills  forsake  thee  ; 
Old  music  heard  by  Mona  of  the  sea  : 

And  where  with  moving  melodies  there  break  thee 
Pastoral  Conway,  venerable  Dee. 

Like  music  lives,  nor  may  that  music  die, 

Still  in  the  far,  fair  Gaelic  places  : 

The  speech,  so  wistful  with  its  kindly  graces. 

Holy  Croagh  Patrick  knows,  and  holy  Hy  : 

The  speech,  that  wakes  the  soul  in  withered  faces. 

And  wakes  remembrance  of  great  things  gone  by. 

Like  music  by  the  desolate  Land’s  End 
Mournful  forgetfulness  hath  broken  : 

No  more  words  kindred  to  the  winds  are  spoken, 
Where  upon  iron  cliffs  whole  seas  expend 
That  strength,  whereof  the  unalterable  token 
Remains  wild  music,  even  to  the  world’s  end. 


LIONEL  JOHNSON. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

DEIRDRE’S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SONS 

OF  USNACH  ....  3 

THE  MADNESS  OF  KING  GOLL  . 7 

THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE  . 10 

AEDH  TELLS  OF  THE  ROSE  IN  HIS 

HEART 11 

INTO  THE  TWILIGHT  . . . 12 

A FAERY  SONG  . ' . . 13 

DOWN  BY  THE  SALLEY  GARDENS  14 

TO  THE  ROSE  UPON  THE  ROOD  OF 

TIME 15 

OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY  17 

MAY  EVE  .....  19 

WHERE  ARE  YOU  GOING  . • 21 

THREE  SONGS  FROM  MUIRGEIS  . 23 

THE  WAVES  OF  BREFFNY  . . 26 

INISHAIL 27 

“where  you  buy  joy  for  a 

9> 


PENNY 


29 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  WIND  THAT  SHAKES  THE 

BARLEY 31 

“beauty’s  a flower’’  . . 32 

SEA  WRACK 33 

CORRYMEELA  ....  35 

A BROKEN  SONG  ....  37 

“l  HAVE  BEEN  TO  HY-BRASAIL ’’  38 

IN  TIR-NA’N-OG  ....  39 

TO  MORFYDD  ....  41 

EPILOGUE 42 


vin 


A LITTLE  GARLAND  OF 
CELTIC  VERSE 


Lovely  and  loved,  O passionate  land! 
Dear  Celtic  land,  unconquered  still ! 

Thy  mountain  strength  prevails : 

Thy  winds  have  all  their  wilU 

They  have  no  care  for  meaner  things  ; 
They  have  no  scorn  for  brooding  dreams : 
A spirit  in  them  sings, 

A light  about  them  beams. 


LIONEL  JOHNSON. 


DEIRDRE’S  LAMENT  FOR  THE 
SONS  OF  USNACH 

From  the  Irish 

HE  lions  of  the  hill  are  gone, 
And  I am  left  alone  — alone  — 
Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and 
deep, 

For  I am  sick,  and  fain  would 
sleep  ! 

The  falcons  of  the  wood  are  flown, 

And  I am  left  alone  — alone  — 

Dig  the  grave  both  deep  and  wide. 

And  let  us  slumber  side  by  side. 

The  dragons  of  the  rock  are  sleeping. 

Sleep  that  wakes  not  for  our  weeping  — 

Dig  the  grave,  and  make  it  ready, 

Lay  me  on  my  true-love’s  body. 


3 


Lay  their  spears  and  bucklers  bright 
By  the  warriors'  sides  aright; 

Many  a day  the  three  before  me 
On  their  linked  bucklers  bore  me. 

Lay  upon  the  low  grave  floor, 

'Neath  each  head,  the  blue  claymore ; 
Many  a time  the  noble  three 
Reddened  these  blue  blades  for  me. 

Lay  the  collars,  as  is  meet. 

Of  their  greyhounds  at  their  feet ; 

Many  a time  for  me  have  they 
Brought  the  tall  red  deer  to  bay. 

In  the  falcon's  jesses  throw. 

Hook  and  arrow,  line  and  bow; 

Never  again,  by  stream  or  plain. 

Shall  the  gentle  woodsmen  go. 

Sweet  companions,  ye  were  ever  — 

Harsh  to  me,  your  sister,  never; 

Woods  and  wilds,  and  misty  valleys. 
Were  with  you  as  good 's  a palace. 

O,  to  hear  my  true-love  singing. 

Sweet  as  sound  of  trumpets  ringing ; 

Like  the  sway  of  ocean  swelling 
Rolled  his  deep  voice  round  our  dwelling. 


4 


O ! to  hear  the  echoes  pealing 
Round  our  green  and  fairy  sheeling, 
When  the  three,  with  soaring  chorus, 
Passed  the  silent  skylark  o'er  us. 

Echo  now,  sleep,  morn  and  even  — 
Lark  alone  enchant  the  heaven  ! 
Ardan's  lips  are  scant  of  breath, 
Neesa's  tongue  is  cold  in  death. 

Stag,  exult  on  glen  and  mountain  — 
Salmon,  leap  from  loch  to  fountain  — 
Heron,  in  the  free  air  warm  ye  — 
Usnach's  sons  no  more  will  harm  ye  ! 

Erin's  stay  no  more  you  are. 

Rulers  of  the  ridge  of  war ; 

Never  more 't  will  be  your  fate 
To  keep  the  beam  of  battle  straight ! 

Woe  is  me  ! by  fraud  and  wrong. 
Traitors  false  and  tyrants  strong. 

Fell  Clan  Usnach,  bought  and  sold. 
For  Barach's  feast  and  Conor's  gold  ! 

Woe  to  Eman,  roof  and  wall ! 

Woe  to  Red  Branch,  hearth  and  hall ! 
Tenfold  woe  and  black  dishonour 
To  the  foul  and  false  Clan  Conor  ! 


5 


Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 

Sick  I am,  and  fain  would  sleep ! 

Dig  the  grave  and  make  it  ready, 

Lay  me  on  my  true-love’s  body. 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 


6 


THE  MADNESS  OF  KING  GOLL 


T SAT  on  cushioned  otter  skin  : 

My  word  was  law  from  Ith  to  Emen, 

And  shook  at  Invar  Amargin 

The  hearts  of  the  world-troubling  seamen, 

And  drove  tumult  and  war  away 
From  girl  and  boy  and  man  and  beast ; 

The  fields  grew  fatter  day  by  day, 

The  wild  fowl  of  the  air  increased  ; 

And  every  ancient  Ollave  said. 

While  he  bent  down  his  fading  head, 

‘ He  drives  away  the  Northern  cold/ 

They  will  not  hushy  the  leaves  a-flutter  round 
me,  the  beech  leaves  old. 

I sat  and  mused  and  drank  sweet  wine ; 

A herdsman  came  from  inland  valleys, 

Crying,  the  pirates  drove  his  swine 
To  fill  their  dark-beaked  hollow  galleys. 

I called  my  battle-breaking  men. 

And  my  loud  brazen  battle-cars 
From  rolling  vale  and  rivery  glen ; 

And  under  the  blinking  of  the  stars 
Fell  on  the  pirates  by  the  deep. 

And  hurled  them  in  the  gulph  of  sleep  : 

These  hands  won  many  a torque  of  gold. 

They  will  not  hush,  the  leaves  a-flutter  round 
me,  the  beech  leaves  old. 


7 


But  slowly,  as  I shouting  slew 
And  trampled  in  the  bubbling  mire, 

In  my  most  secret  spirit  grew 
A whirling  and  a wandering  fire  : 

I stood  : keen  stars  above  me  shone. 

Around  me  shone  keen  eyes  of  men : 

I laughed  aloud  and  hurried  on 
By  rocky  shore  and  rushy  fen ; 

I laughed  because  birds  fluttered  by. 

And  starlight  gleamed,  and  clouds  flew  high. 
And  rushes  waved  and  waters  rolled. 

They  will  not  hush,  the  leaves  a-flutter  round 
me,  the  beech  leaves  old. 


And  now  I wander  in  the  woods 
When  summer  gluts  the  golden  bees, 

Or  in  autumnal  solitudes 
Arise  the  leopard-coloured  trees ; 

Or  when  along  the  wintry  strands 
The  cormorants  shiver  on  their  rocks ; 

I wander  on,  and  wave  my  hands. 

And  sing,  and  shake  my  heavy  locks. 

The  grey  wolf  knows  me ; by  one  ear 
I lead  along  the  woodland  deer ; 

The  hares  run  by  me  growing  bold. 

They  will  not  hush,  the  leaves  a-flutter  round 
me,  the  beech  leaves  old. 


8 


I came  upon  a little  town, 

That  slumbered  in  the  harvest  moon, 

And  passed  a-tiptoe  up  and  down, 

Murmuring,  to  a fitful  tune, 

How  I have  followed,  night  and  day, 

A tramping  of  tremendous  feet. 

And  saw  where  this  old  tympan  lay. 

Deserted  on  a doorway  seat. 

And  bore  it  to  the  woods  with  me ; 

Of  some  unhuman  misery 
Our  married  voices  wildly  trolled. 

They  will  not  hush,  the  leaves  a-flutter  round 
me,  the  beech  leaves  old, 

I sang  how,  when  day’s  toil  is  done. 

Orchil  shakes  out  her  long  dark  hair 

That  hides  away  the  dying  sun 

And  sheds  faint  odours  through  the  air : 

When  my  hand  passed  from  wire  to  wire 
It  quenched,  with  sound  like  falling  dew, 

The  whirling  and  the  wandering  fire ; 

But  lift  a mournful  ulalu. 

For  the  kind  wires  are  torn  and  still. 

And  I must  wander  wood  and  hill 
Through  summer’s  heat  and  winter’s  cold. 

They  will  not  hush,  the  leaves  a-flutter  round 
me,  the  beech  leaves  old, 

W,  B,  Yeats, 


9 


THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 


T WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and 
wattles  made ; 

Nine  bean  rows  will  I have  there,  a hive  for 
the  honey  bee. 

And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace 
comes  dropping  slow, 

Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to 
where  the  cricket  sings ; 

There  midnight 's  all  a glimmer,  and  noon  a 
purple  glow. 

And  evening  full  of  the  linnet’s  wings. 

I)  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and 
day 

I hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds 
by  the  shore ; 

While  I stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pave- 
ments grey, 

I hear  it  in  the  deep  heart’s  core. 

W.  B.  Yeats, 


10 


AEDH  TELLS  OF  THE  ROSE  IN  HIS 

HEART 


A LL  things  uncomely  and  broken,  all  things 

^ ^ worn  out  and  old, 

The  cry  of  a child  by  the  roadway,  the  creak  of 
a lumbering  cart. 

The  heavy  steps  of  the  ploughman,  splashing 
the  wintry  mould, 

Are  wronging  your  image  that  blossoms  a rose 
in  the  deeps  of  my  heart. 

The  wrong  of  unshapely  things  is  a wrong  too 
great  to  be  told  ; 

I hunger  to  build  them  anew  and  sit  on  a green 
knoll  apart. 

With  the  earth  and  the  sky  and  the  water, 
remade,  like  a casket  of  gold 

For  my  dreams  of  your  image  that  blossoms  a 
rose  in  the  deeps  of  my  heart. 

IV,  B,  Yeats, 


11 


INTO  THE  TWILIGHT 


/^[JT-WORN  heart,  in  a time  out-worn, 
Come  clear  of  the  nets  of  wrong  and 
right ; 

Laugh  heart  again  in  the  grey  twilight. 

Sigh,  heart,  again  in  the  dew  of  the  morn. 

Your  mother  Erie  is  always  young. 

Dew  ever  shining  and  twilight  grey ; 

Though  hope  fall  from  you  and  love  decay. 
Burning  in  fires  of  a slanderous  tongue. 

Come,  heart,  where  hill  is  heaped  upon  hill  : 
For  there  the  mystical  brotherhood 
Of  sun  and  moon  and  hollow  and  wood 
And  river  and  stream  work  out  their  will ; 

And  God  stands  winding  His  lonely  horn. 

And  time  and  the  world  are  ever  in  flight; 

And  love  is  less  kind  than  the  grey  twilight. 
And  hope  is  less  dear  than  the  dew  of  the  morn. 

IT.  B,  Yeats. 


12 


A FAERY  SONG 


Sung  hy  the  people  of  faery  over  Diarmiud  and  Grant  a, 
who  lay  in  their  bridal  sleep  under  a Cromlech 

WE  who  are  old,  old  and  gay? 

O so  old  ! 

Thousands  of  years,  thousands  of  years, 

If  all  were  told  : 

Give  to  these  children,  new  from  the  world. 
Silence  and  love ; 

And  the  long  dew-dropping  hours  of  the  night. 
And  the  stars  above  : 

Give  to  these  children,  new  from  the  world. 
Rest  far  from  men. 

Is  anything  better,  anything  better 
Tell  us  it  then  : 

Us  who  are  old,  old  and  gay  : 

O so  old  ! 

Thousands  of  years,  thousands  of  years, 

If  all  were  told. 


W,  B.  Yeats, 


13 


DOWN  BY  THE  SALLEY  GARDENS^ 


Down  by  the  Salley  gardens  my  love  and 
I did  meet; 

She  passed  the  salley  gardens  with  little  snow- 
white  feet. 

She  bid  me  take  love  easy,  as  the  leaves  grow 
on  the  tree ; 

But  I,  young  and  foolish,  with  her  would  not 
agree. 

In  a field  by  the  river  my  love  and  I did  stand. 
And  on  my  leaning  shoulder  she  laid  her  snow- 
white  hand. 

She  bid  me  take  life  easy,  as  the  grass  grows  on 
the  weirs ; 

But  I was  young  and  foolish,  and  now  am  full 
of  tears. 

IV.  B.  Yeats. 


* Down  hy  the  Salley  Gardens.  — An  extension  of 
three  lines  sung  to  me  by  an  old  woman  at  Ballisodare. 


14 


TO  THE  ROSE  UPON  THE  ROOD 

OF  TIME 


'P  ED  Rose,  proud  Rose,  sad  Rose  of  all  my 
days ! 

Come  near  me,  while  I sing  the  ancient  ways : 
Cuhoollin  battling  with  the  bitter  tide; 

The  Druid,  grey,  wood-nurtured,  quiet-eyed, 
Who  cast  round  Fergus  dreams,  and  ruin  untold ; 
And  thine  own  sadness,  whereof  stars,  grown  old 
In  dancing  silver  sandalled  on  the  sea. 

Sing  in  their  high  and  lonely  melody. 

Come  near,  that  no  more  blinded  by  man's  fate, 
I find  under  the  boughs  of  love  and  hate. 

In  all  poor  foolish  things  that  live  a day, 
Eternal  beauty  wandering  on  her  way. 

Come  near,  come  near,  come  near  — Ah,  leave 
me  still 

A little  space  for  the  rose-breath  to  fill ! 

Lest  I no  more  hear  common  things  that  crave  ; 
The  weak  worm  hiding  down  in  its  small  cave. 
The  field  mouse  running  by  me  in  the  grass. 
And  heavy  mortal  hopes  that  toil  and  pass ; 

But  seek  alone  to  hear  the  strange  things  said 
By  God  to  the  bright  hearts  of  those  long  dead. 


15 


And  learn  to  chaunt  a tongue  men  do  not  know. 
Come  near ; I would,  before  my  time  to  go, 
Sing  of  old  Eire  and  the  ancient  ways : 

Red  Rose,  proud  Rose,  sad  Rose  of  all  my  days. 

W.  B.  Yeats. 


16 


OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY 


To  E.  Neshit 

T AST  night,  last  night,  in  the  dark  o’  the 
moon 

Into  my  dreams  slid  a faery  tune  . . . 

It  slew  the  dreams  that  I dreamed  of  him, 
With  its  moonshine  music,  faint  and  dim. 
What  tune  should  the  fairy  pipers  play 
But  “Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away?” 

The  music  called  to  my  idle  feet. 

And  O ! the  music  was  wild  and  sweet : 

I left  my  dreams  and  my  lonely  bed. 

And  followed  afar  wher^  the  music  led  — 

And  never  a tune  did  the  pipers  play 
But  “ Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away.” 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

What  love  has  tenderer  words  to  say? 

Love  that  lifteth  or  bows  the  head. 

Love  that  liveth  or  love  that ’s  dead  ? 

Hills  that  are  far  away  are  fair. 

And  I followed  the  ghost  of  my  lover  there. 

We  danced  all  night  in  a silent  band, 

I and  my  lover,  hand  in  hand  : 


17 


We  danced,  nor  knew  till  the  dew  was  dry 
That  deep  slept  Donat  and  lone  slept  I — 
We  took  no  thought  of  the  coming  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

My  eyes  are  blind  with  the  growing  light, 
And  O my  grief ! that  the  day  was  night  — 
For  my  heart  is  broke,  for  my  lover's  eyes. 
And  all  day  long  in  my  ears  there  cries 
The  tune  of  the  fairy  pipes  that  play 
‘‘Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away." 

Nora  Chesson. 


18 


MAY  EVE 


THERE'S  a crying  at  my  window,  and  a 
hand  upon  my  door, 

And  a stir  among  the  yarrow  that's  fading  on 
the  floor : 

The  voice  cries  at  my  window,  the  hand  at  my 
door  beats  on, 

But  if  I heed  and  answer  them,  sure,  hand  and 
voice  are  gone. 

You  would  not  heed  my  calling  once,  and  now 
why  w’ould  I hear? 

You  would  not  hold  my  wistful  hand,  but  let 
it  fall,  my  dear : 

You  would  not  give  me  word  or  look,  but  went 
your  silent  way. 

Oh,  wirrasthrue,  dumb  mouth  of  you  that  had 
so  much  to  say. 

Be  still,  my  dear : I heed,  I hear,  but  cannot 
help  you  now. 

The  rose  is  dead  that  was  so  red,  and  snow 's 
upon  her  bough. 

Be  still,  be  still  a little  while,  for  I shall  surely 
come 

And  kiss  the  sorrow  from  your  eyes,  and  from 
your  kind  lips  dumb. 


19 


Be  patient  now,  avourneen ! you  may  not  lift 
the  latch  : 

Go  hence  : the  wind  is  bitter  cold  that  whistles 
through  the  thatch. 

The  wind  is  cold,  and  I am  old,  but  you  ’re 
young  and  fair  to  see, 

And  my  heart  turns  to  you  night  and  day,  my 
fair  love  leaving  me ! 

Nora  Chesson, 


20 


WHERE  ARE  YOU  GOING? 


WHERE  are  you  going 

O muirnean,  muirnean  ? 

Beyond  all  snowing, 

Beyond  all  reach 
Of  tenderest  speech, 

Or  waves  that  break 
Upon  any  beach  ; 

Or  wind’s  rough  blowing 
On  linn  or  lake  — 

It ’s  there  is  going 
Your  muirnean  O. 

Where  are  you  going, 

O muirnean,  muirnean  ? 

Love  is  not  knowing 
Why  you  fell  weary. 

Why  you  found  dreary 

The  way  all  feet  in  the  world  are  going. 

Stay  with  us,  dearie  — 

Ah,  muirnean,  01 

I must  be  going ; 

Though  you  stand  nearest 
Of  all,  and  dearest. 

You  cannot  keep  me,  for  I must  go. 
Though  my  heart ’s  breaking 
That  I ’m  forsaking 


21 


The  faces  kent  and  the  ways  I know : 

I ’ll  not  be  staying 
For  all  your  praying, 

For  all  the  gifts  in  kind  Love’s  bestowing. 
I must  not  stay  though  you  hold  me  so, 
Ah  no,  no,  no ! 

My  bird ’s  the  raven  ; 

The  doves  no  more 
Will  I be  heeding. 

Will  I be  feeding 
Here  at  my  door. 

Crooning  together 
As  once  of  old. 

My  bed ’s  the  heather, 

My  bed  is  green. 

And  it  is  not  cold. 

To  the  quiet  haven 
My  boat  is  going. 

Where  no  wind ’s  blowing 
Or  storm  has  been. 

The  Ninth  Wave’s  creeping 
About  my  feet : 

Let  me  go.  Sweet  — 

I ’m  to  my  sleeping 
And  fain  to  go. 

O muirneariy  muirnean, 

My  muirnean  Of 

Nora  Chesson, 


22 


THREE  SONGS  FROM  MUIRGEIS 
AN  IRISH  PLAY 


I 

The  heart  that’s  set  upon  a rose 

Must  break  when  summer  goes; 
All  flowers  must  as  pilgrims  fare 
When  winter’s  trumpet  blows. 
September  .sees  the  rose-tree  bare, 

And  no  October  knows 
What  roses  are,  what  roses  were  — 

My  love  is  not  a rose  ! 

My  love  shall  be  a splendid  star 
That  shines  apart,  afar. 

Time  cannot  dim  her  lovely  light. 

Nor  winds  on  it  make  war ; 

The  wide-eyed  day,  the  dreamful  night 
Behold  no  envy  mar 
One  rose  of  light  that  burns  up  blight 
As  fuel  for  a star. 


23 


II 


I CALL  thee  from  the  changing  land 
To  the  unchanging  sea; 

I bring  a bride-gift  in  my  hand 
Of  immortality. 

The  land  is  fair,  but  fairer  far 
The  pastures  of  the  sea. 

Canst  thou  reach  down  the  lowest  star? 

My  sea-fires  gleam  for  thee. 

All  rivers  run  unto  one  end 
And  perish  in  the  sea ; 

Turn  thou  from  lover  and  from  friend, 
And  give  thine  heart  to  me. 

Thy  love  shall  suffer  change  and  dearth. 
Thy  friend  the  years  estrange ; 

There  is  no  faithfulness  on  earth  — 

The  sea  will  never  change. 


24 


Ill 


My  heart  is  heavy  night  and  day,  my  fair 
love  leaving  me, 

That  from  my  path  you  turned  away  to  dwell 
among  the  Shee, 

Where  none  grows  old  and  none  grows  cold 
for  hope  or  memory ; 

I am  most  sad  while  you  are  glad,  my  fair  love 
leaving  me. 

Now  every  day  and  all  night  long  I wear  the 
bitter  rue 

And  hear  a wayward  faery  song  when  I would 
dream  of  you. 

In  all  men’s  ears  my  tale  is  told,  my  grief ’s  for 
all  to  see. 

Sad  for  your  sake  I sleep  and  wake,  my  fair 
love  leaving  me. 

You  come  not  even  to  my  dreams  between  the 
night  and  day. 

And  have  you  drunk  of  faery  streams  that 
washed  your  love  away, 

O heart  of  gold,  and  left  you  cold  as  water  and 
as  free.^ 

Ah  ! wirrasthrue,  my  heart’s  with  you,  my  fair 
love  leaving  me. 

Nora  Chess  on. 


25 


THE  WAVES  OF  BREFFNY 


The  grand  road  from  the  mountain  goes 
shining  to  the  sea, 

And  there  is  traffic  on  it  and  many  a horse  and 
cart; 

But  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  are  dearer  far 
to  me 

And  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  go  rambling 
through  my  heart. 

A great  storm  from  the  ocean  goes  shouting 
o’er  the  hill, 

And  there  is  glory  in  it,  and  terror  on  the  wind  ; 
But  the  haunted  air  of  twilight  is  very  strange 
and  still, 

And  the  little  winds  of  twilight  are  dearer  to  my 
mind. 

The  great  waves  of  the  Atlantic  sweep  storm- 
ing on  their  way, 

Shining  green  and  silver  with  the  hidden  herring 
shoal ; 

But  the  little  waves  of  Breffny  have  drenched 
my  heart  in  spray. 

And  the  little  waves  of  Breffny  go  stumbling 
through  my  soul. 

Eva  Gore-Booth, 


26 


INISHAIL 


I WILL  go,  and  leave  the  streetways, 
And  the  world’s  wild,  dinsome  places, 
With  the  hurrying,  weary  feetways. 

And  the  folks  of  frenzied  faces ; 

I will  go  through  darkened  spaces, 
Morning  glad,  or  starlight  pale. 

Through  the  rivers  and  the  passes. 

Till  I find,  among  the  grasses. 

Long  sweet  sleep  among  the  grasses 
Of  the  graves  of  Inishail. 

Ah,  ye  daunt  me,  with  your  wonder. 

And  your  toils  about  you  lying, 

O ye  cities,  with  your  thunder. 

And  your  children  in  you,  dying. 

And  I weary,  ever  sighing. 

For  the  whisper  of  the  West, 

Where  the  glow  and  glamour  meeting. 
And  the  waves  on  long  shores  beating. 
Are  but  echoes  of  the  beating 
Of  the  life’s  blood  in  my  breast. 

I will  plait  a roof  of  rashes 

For  the  low  place  of  my  sleeping, 
Where  the  wistful  water  plashes. 


27 


Crooning,  croodling,  laughing,  weeping, 
And  the  winds  from  Cruachan  sweeping 
Join  their  gladness  and  their  wail ; 

Till  the  angels'  glory  blinds  me, 

And  the  long  sleep  comes  and  finds  me. 
In  the  tangled  grasses  finds  me. 

By  the  graves  in  Inishail. 

Anonymous, 


28 


“WHERE  YOU  BUY  JOY  FOR  A 

PENNY  ’’ 

YOU  may  buy  joy  for  a penny  yonder  in 
Tir  na  n’Og. 

If  you  were  King  of  Ireland  or  but  a barefoot 
rogue 

Your  chances  would  be  equal,  for,  och,  the 
roads  are  many, 

But  they  lead  to  one  fair  country  where  they 
sell  joy  for  a penny. 

The  king  has  got  a goodly  queen,  and  many  a 
loyal  vassal. 

And  the  blessings  of  the  poor  are  the  keepers 
of  his  castle ; 

But  his  queen’s  hands  cannot  hold  him,  his 
queen’s  heart  cannot  keep  : 

For  voices  out  of  Tir  na  n’Og  have  called 
across  his  sleep. 

“ Let  down,  let  down  the  drawbridge,  bring  in 
my  horse  from  grass. 

Let  others  loiter  through  their  lives,  and  watch 
the  shadows  pass. 

Longer  and  ever  longer;  at  noon  I must  away. 
When  shadows  are  at  shortest,  and  time  takes 
holiday. 


29 


The  king  has  ridden  westward,  the  way  the 
bright  sun  goes, 

And  the  beggar  by  the  roadside  the  selfsame 
calling  knows; 

The  girl  that  begs  beside  him,  and  makes  her 
arm  his  pillow. 

He  leaves  her  with  a light  farewell,  and  she 
may  wear  the  willow. 

Now  he  that  rides  and  wears  a crown,  and  he 
that  tramps  his  way 

Together  find  the  selfsame  goal  at  dropping  of 
the  day; 

Though  one  has  climbed  the  Golden  Spears, 
one  gone  by  lowlands  fenny. 

Both  come  at  last  to  Tir  na  n'Og,  where  you 
may  buy  joy  for  a penny. 

Anonymous, 


30 


THE  WIND  THAT  SHAKES  THE 

BARLEY 


^ I ^HERE’S  music  in  my  heart  all  day, 

I hear  it  late  and  early, 

It  comes  from  fields  are  far  away. 

The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley. 

Ochone ! 

Above  the  uplands  drenched  with  dew, 

The  sky  hangs  soft  and  pearly. 

An  emerald  world  is  listening  to 
The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley. 

Ochone ! 

Above  the  bluest  mountain  crest 
The  lark  is  singing  rarely, 

It  rocks  the  singer  into  rest. 

The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley. 

Ochone ! 

Oh,  still  through  summers  and  through  springs 
It  calls  me  late  and  early. 

Come  home,  come  home,  come  home,  it  sings, 
The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley. 

Ochone ! 

Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson. 


31 


“BEAUTY’S  A FLOWER” 

yjOUTH^Sfor  an  hour, 

Beauty  ’j  a flower. 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 

Youth ’s  for  an  hour,  an’  the  taste  o’  life  is  sweet, 
Ailes  was  a girl  that  stepped  on  two  bare  feet; 
In  all  my  days  I never  seen  the^  one  as  fair  as 
she, 

I ’d  have  lost  my  life  for  Ailes,  an’  she  never 
cared  for  me. 

Beauty ’s  a flower,  an’  the  days  o’  life  are  long. 
There’  little  knowin’  who  may  live  to  sing 
another  song; 

For  Ailes  was  the  fairest,  but  another  is  my  wife, 
An’  Mary  — God  be  good  to  her!  — is  all  I love 
in  life. 

Youth  *s  for  an  hour, 

Beauty  ’j  a flower. 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world, 

Moira  Neill. 


32 


SEA  WRACK 


^ I ^HE  wrack  was  dark  an’  shiny  where  it 
floated  in  the  sea, 

There  was  no  one  in  the  brown  boat  but  only 
him  an’  me; 

Him  to  cut  the  sea  wrack,  me  to  mind  the  boat, 

An’  not  a word  between  us  the  hours  we  were 
afloat. 

The  wet  wrack. 

The  sea  wrack. 

The  wrack  was  strong  to  cut. 

We  laid  it  on  the  grey  rocks  to  wither  in  the 
sun, 

An’  what  should  call  my  lad  then,  to  sail  from 
Cushendun? 

With  a low  moon,  a full  tide,  a swell  upon  the 
deep. 

Him  to  sail  the  old  boat,  me  to  fall  asleep. 

The  dry  wrack, 

The  sea  wrack. 

The  wrack  was  dead  so  soon. 

There’  a fire  low  upon  the  rocks  to  burn  the 
wrack  to  kelp. 

There’  a boat  gone  down  upon  the  Moyle,  an’ 
sorra  one  to  help! 


33 


Him  beneath  the  salt  sea,  me  upon  the  shore, 
By  sunlight  or  moonlight  we  ’ll  lift  the  wrack 
no  more. 

The  dark  wrack, 

The  sea  wrack. 

The  wrack  may  drift  ashore. 

Moira  a Neill 


34 


CORRYMEELA 


/^VER  here  in  England  I ’m  helpin’  wi’  the 

^ hay, 

An’  I wisht  I was  in  Ireland  the  livelong  day ; 

Weary  on  the  English  hay,  an’  sorra  take  the 
wheat! 

Och!  Corrymeela  art  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

There’  a deep  dumb  river  flowin’  by  beyont  the 
heavy  trees. 

This  livin’  air  is  moithered  wi’  the  bummin’ 
o’  the  bees; 

I wisht  I ’d  hear  the  Claddagh  burn  go  runnin’ 
through  the  heat 

Past  Corrymeela,  wV  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

The  people  that ’s  in  England  is  richer  nor  the 
Jews, 

There’  not  the  smallest  young  gossoon  but 
thravels  in  his  shoes! 

I ’d  give  the  pipe  between  me  teeth  to  see  a 
barefut  child, 

Och!  Corrymeela  an  the  low  south  wind. 

Here ’s  hands  so  full  o’  money  an’  hearts  so  full 
o’  care. 

By  the  luck  o’  love!  I ’d  still  go  light  for  all 
I did  go  bare. 


35 


“God  save  ye,  colleen  dhas,^'  I said:  the  girl 
she  thought  me  wild. 

Far  Corrymeelay  an  the  low  south  wind. 

D'  ye  mind  me  now,  the  song  at  night  is  mortial 
hard  to  raise, 

The  girls  are  heavy  goin’  here,  the  boys  are 
ill  to  plase; 

When  one'st  I 'm  out  this  workin’  hive,  't  is  I ’ll 
be  back  again  — 

Ayy  Corrymeelay  in  the  same  soft  rain. 

The  puff  o’  smoke  from  one  ould  roof  before 
an  English  town ! 

For  a shaugh  wid  Andy  Feelan  here  I ’d  give 
a silver  crown. 

For  a curl  o’  hair  like  Mollie’s  ye’ll  ask  the  like 
in  vain. 

Sweet  Corrymeelay  a7t^  the  same  soft  rain, 

Moira  Neill, 


36 


A BROKEN  SONG 


HERE  am  I from  ? ’ From  the  green 
hills  of  Erin. 

^ Have  I no  song  then  f ’ My  songs  are  all  sung. 
‘ What  0^  my  love  ? ’ ’T  is  alone  I am  farin’. 
Old  grows  my  heart,  an’  my  voice  yet  is  young. 


' If  she  was  tall?  ’ Like  a king’s  own  daughter. 

^ If  she  was  fair?  ’ Like  a mornin’  o’  May. 

When  she ’d  come  laughin’  ’t  was  the  runnin’ 
wather, 

When  she ’d  come  blushin’  ’t  was  the  break  o’ 
day. 

^ Where  did  she  dwell?  ’ Where  one’st  I had 
my  dwellin’. 

^ Who  loved  her  best  ? ’ There’  no  one  now  will 
know. 

^ Where  is  she  gone?"*  Och,  why  would  I be 
tellin’l' 

Where  she  is  gone  there  I can  never  go. 

Moira  O'  Neill, 


37 


“I  HAVE  BEEN  TO  HY-BRASAIL ' 


T HAVE  been  to  Hy-Brasail, 

And  the  Land  of  Youth  have  seen, 
Much  laughter  have  I heard  there, 

And  birds  amongst  the  green. 

Many  have  I met  there, 

But  no  one  ever  old, 

Yet  I have  left  Hy-Brasail 
Before  my  time  was  told. 

Love  have  I known,  too, 

As  I shall  meet  no  more ; 

Lost  is  the  magic  island. 

And  I cannot  find  the  shore. 

Since  I have  left  Hy-Brasail, 

Age  has  encompassed  me. 

She  plucks  me  by  the  shoulder 
And  will  not  let  me  be. 

Her  face  is  grey  and  mournful, 

Her  hand  is  hard  and  cold, 

Yet  I have  left  Hy-Brasail 
Before  my  time  was  told. 

Dora  Sigerso7i, 

I One  of  the  Enchanted  Isles,  sometimes  seen  in  the 
western  seas  from  the  shores  of  Ireland. 


38 


IN  TIR-NA’N-OG 


In  Tir-na  n-Ogy 
In  Tir-na  n-Ogy 

Summer  and  spring  go  hand  in  hand,  and  in 
the  radiant  weather 

Brown  autumn  leaves  and  winter  snow  come 
floating  down  together. 

In  Tir-na  n-  Og, 

In  Tir-na  n-  Og, 

The  sagans  sway  this  way  and  that,  the  twisted 
fern  uncloses. 

The  quicken-berry  hides  its  red  above  the 
tender  roses. 

In  Tirana  n-Ogy 
In  Ttr-na  n-Ogy 

The  blackbird  lilts,  the  robin  chirps,  the  linnet 
wearies  never. 

They  pipe  to  dancing  feet  of  Sidhe  and  thus 
shall  pipe  for  ever. 

In  Ttr-na  n-Ogy 
In  Tir-nol n-Ogy 

All  in  a drift  of  apple-blooms  my  true  love  there 
is  roaming. 

He  will  not  come  although  I pray  from  dawn- 
ing until  gloaming. 

39 


In  Ttr-na\-0^, 

In  Tir-nd n-O^j 

The  Sidhe  desired  my  Heart's  Delight,  they 
lured  him  from  my  keeping, 

He  stepped  within  a fairy  ring  while  all  the 
world  was  sleeping. 

In  Tir-ndn-Og, 

In  Ttr-ndn-Og, 

He  hath  forgotten  hill  and  glen  where  misty 
shadows  gather. 

The  bleating  of  the  mountain  sheep,  the  cabin 
of  his  father. 

In  Tir-ndn-Og, 

In  Tir-ndn-Ogy 

He  wanders  in  a happy  dream  thro'  scented 
golden  hours. 

He  flutes,  to  woo  a fairy  love,  knee  deep  in 
fairy  flowers : 

In  Tir-ndn-Og, 

In  Tir-ndn-Ogy 

No  memory  hath  he  of  my  face,  no  sorrow  for 
my  sorrow. 

My  flax  is  spun,  my  wheel  is  hushed,  and  so  I 
wait  the  morrow. 

Anna  MacManuSy 

(“ETHNA  CARBERY.’’) 


40 


TO  MORFYDD 


yV  VOICE  on  the  winds, 

^ ^ A voice  by  the  waters, 
Wanders  and  cries: 

Oh  ! what  are  the  winds  ? 

And  what  are  the  waters  ? 

Mine  are  your  eyes  / 

Western  the  winds  are. 

And  western  the  waters, 

Where  the  light  lies: 

Oh  ! what  are  the  winds  ? 

And  what  are  the  waters  ? 

Mine  are  your  eyes! 

Cold,  cold,  grow  the  winds. 

And  wild  grow  the  waters. 

Where  the  sun  dies: 

Oh!  what  are  the  winds  ? 

And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes! 

And  down  the  night  winds. 

And  down  the  night  waters, 

The  music  flies: 

Oh  ! what  are  the  winds  ? 

And  what  are  the  waters  ? 

Cold  be  the  winds, 

And  wild  be  the  waters, 

So  mine  be  your  eyes! 

Lionel  Johnson, 


41 


EPILOGUE 


\\7 ELL  — when  all  is  said  and  done 

^ ^ Best  within  my  narrow  way  — 
May  some  angel  of  the  sun 
Muse  memorial  o’* er  my  clay : 

Here  was  Beauty  all  betrayed 
From  the  freedom  of  her  state  ; 

From  her  human  uses  stayed 
On  an  idle  rhyme  to  wait. 

Ally  what  deep  despair  might  move 
If  the  beauty  lit  a smile; 

Or  the  heart  was  warm  with  love 
That  luas  pondering  the  while. 

He  has  built  his  monument 
With  the  winds  of  time  at  strife. 

Who  could  have  before  he  went 
Written  on  the  Book  of  Life, 

To  the  stars  from  which  he  came 
Empty-handed  he  goes  home. 

He  who  might  have  wrought  in  flame 
Only  traced  upon  the  foam,** 

“A.  E,** 


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